Only yesterday I lived my childhood in the lap of innocence, sitting for hours in my tree house dreaming myself the incarnation of Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. I waited for dusk to watch fireflies light up my southern sky. I can still smell the sweetness of honeysuckle wifting through our bedroom window. On schooldays if there was enough money, my aunt gave us a nickel to buy a slice of watermelon to eat as we walked home from school. Oh so good. After dinner, we polished our shoes for school the next day while scaring ourselves to death listing to “Inner Sanctum” on the radio. Time…a thing of feathers

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

In the quietness of early day, I discovered a secret gift for collectors of small things. From habit, my better self got up and walked over to the window to observe a family of young morning glories clustered together in prayer; their heads bowed low. I thanked them for their generous heart and spent the rest of the morning lost in wonder.

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

I pined for raindrops to fall against my cheek; yet nature had not the strength to yield moisture to earth’s bounty, nor water for thorny bush seedlings; my feet scorched to the touch. All the while, I foolishly prayed for night to come quickly, that a gentle breeze would push me over the edge. Oh Weaver, what was the greater gift? Was it the baubles received or the hard lessons learned?

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

slow thaw of winter snow bougainvilleas eagerly await spring no matter how veiled her balancing act more seasons to witness Oh Weaver Ji you gift your hardest battles to your strongest warriors a lion waits in my gathering place that need be tamed it is to that divine drop of you I sing I kiss your belly full of divine secrets waiting to be cracked open

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

Mrs. Thrush sings the morning song, cocks her lovely head exhales her spotted cleavage. Dearest friends, herein lies the solution to the world’s problems: people should find a solitary place, open their mouths wide and holler so loud that everyone knows how miserable they are, have no money, their apartment doesn’t have an elevator, the kids never write; worst of all they’re sure someone gave them the dreaded coronavirus because everyone in the supermarket (or maybe the elevator) breathed on them. Dear Heart, please make friends with Mrs. Thrush in the hope she reveals her secret for leading a happy life. She wisely counsels: never fear turning the corner

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

I sit in the great spring outdoors, my heart buried in snow
hot torrid summer comes; I’m still buried in snow
If there was a way out I would take it, at least I tell myself so
I remain a prisoner of what I know but cannot see
I asked my human heart what happened that it’s become so stingy …”it isn’t words I hear but your thoughts that color you in ambiguity” …time to play the violin again
Oh Weaver, will you catch me if I fall from this path of grace you carved narrow as a razors edge. I’ve grown old searching for you; living on virgin fizz, of dreams and castles,collection plates for some formless god. You found me sleeping in a church pew craving cigarettes and wine. I gave up my wild ways; promised to meditate each morning though I preferred sleep. Early today as dawn colors our tree line, I received another wind song penned on my bedroom window
“You are mine … I am yours”
My soul now wraps around your honey self in ancient ways that cannot be broken, woolen shawl wrapped around my shoulders
I have no say in matters of the heart

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

There are moments in the middle of the day when I drop everything and just stop. I forget the time and the day; even myself to spend moments by the creek where wild basil and sweet jasmine grows wild. I lay my body down upon the earth and listen to the gentle ripple of water flow over rocks, a blackbird sitting on a limb nearby and somehow my balance once lost is rediscovered in the profound simplicity of a creek bed. Why am I so ill at ease in a crowd?

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

this foggy winter morning I hear a 3-string quartet
of aged priests playing the cello to “Baby it’s cold outside”
and wonder if it’s you ….. is it? or a bullfrog croaking
the same old tune of moon turned cartwheels on a hot summer day, I could not be more awed than just now placing my shoe inside your footprint that leads me back to you
Oh Weaver Ji, I wait for you under the sweetheart tree

© 2020 Jennifer Brookins

Good Morning World

Wake up dear heart

the Divine Alchemist urges you to face life with boldness                              

kick up your heels, buttress up where love is concerned

give timidity its just reward… it’s made you so unhappy

start with a good bitch slap that should do it

afterward we’ll go skinny dipping

don’t be ashamed of nakedness

soul has no use for garments

woven from dark thought

Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Brookins